by Fiona Harper
Claire held her breath. This was perfect. Just the kind of place she wanted to be able to recommend to her clients, but all this perfection came at a price – she was just hoping she could convince Jayce Ryder that promoting The Hamilton as the top romantic hotel in London could benefit them both.
‘Come on,’ Doug said, hooking his arm through hers and leading her down wide marble steps into already packed party. ‘There are a few people I want to introduce you to.’
She had that tiny little moment of stage fright again, at the thought of having to sound sophisticated and impressive and like a smart businesswoman, but then it occurred to her that maybe she was all those things, and that she just had to relax and be herself, not always try to be the perfect version of herself that had only ever existed at the top of her father’s measuring stick.
Doug led her effortlessly through the crowd. Whereas it would have taken her fifteen minutes to nudge and ‘excuse me’ across the room, people just seemed to ebb and flow around him. She looked her escort over once again. For some reason, away from her office, he seemed more dashing, less … desperate. How interesting.
And he certainly knew how to work a room. He went into action, introducing her to every person as they moved seamlessly from group to group. It seemed he knew everyone – journalists, hoteliers, restaurant and airline owners – and when anyone clapped him on the back and asked him how long it had been since they’d seen each other, he replied then smoothly moved on to Claire, singing her praises and making her sound so fabulous that after an hour her handbag was stuffed full of business cards.
She stood back and watched Doug order a martini from a waiter carrying nothing but champagne and marvelled at his ability to charm anyone into anything. She sighed. It really was a pity there was not one hint of a spark between them.
Doug received his martini and then he stood behind Claire, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her until she was facing the door that led onto the west side of the terrace. ‘Now, Wonder Woman, who is it that you’ve been dying to meet all evening?’
Jayce Ryder, she whispered silently to herself.
Doug pointed to their host. He was deep in conversation with another man, a man who stood out from the rest of the corporate-looking crowd. Instead of a suit he wore jeans. Really old jeans, she’d guess, by the way the denim looked soft and worn in places. And instead of a shirt and tie, he wore just the shirt. White, which matched many around him, but it was so crumpled it looked as if he’d just lifted it out of an overpacked duffel bag and thrown it on. Maybe he had. He was the only person amidst all these ‘travel’ people who actually looked as if he might have just jumped off a plane from a far-flung destination.
‘Want to go and meet him?’ Doug said.
Claire nodded, and then realised he meant Ryder.
She took in a deep breath as they moved through the milling guests and approached the pair who were discussing something important and serious on a raised seating area in one corner of the terrace. The crowd thinned here, as if people knew instinctively the smarter of the two was someone important, and not to crowd him.
As they approached, the man Jayce Ryder was talking with turned his head. Claire’s cheeks suddenly got hot and something down in the pit of her stomach wobbled. It was a purely physical reaction. Odd, because of the two men, the hotel owner was definitely the better looking, but there was something about the other man – the way his hair looked as if the only comb it had seen for days was his fingers, an air of recklessness around him that just worked for her.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Doug was saying loudly beside her. ‘Nic? Is that really you?’
The stranger, who’d been frowning up until now, as if he’d been trying to convince his brain that his eyes were playing tricks on it, suddenly grinned at her escort. ‘Get out of here! Doug? Doug Martin?’
The two men laughed and hugged, leaving her and the hotel owner raising their eyebrows and smiling at each other.
‘You two know each other?’ Jayce said, as they thumped each other on the back then pulled apart, still grinning broadly.
Doug nodded. ‘This fine chap and I went to university together, shared a flat with a bunch of louts whose names I can’t even remember now, but we haven’t seen each other in – what? – at least five years. He’s always off somewhere, you know, reporting, or whatever he does.’
Ah, a travel writer, Claire thought. That made sense. No wonder he’d been in such deep conversation with Jayce Ryder.
‘I’ve been trying to convince him to do a piece on the hotel,’ Jayce explained, ‘but he’s a hard man to pin down.’
Doug laughed. ‘That’s why I haven’t seen him in five years!’ He turned to his friend. ‘You ought to do it. It’d be a great project for you.’
The other man – Nick, wasn’t it? Claire thought – just shrugged.
‘As tempting as the offer is, it’s not really the sort of thing I do.’
Jayce Ryder just flashed his famous smile. ‘But you said you were – and I quote – “stuck” in London for a month or two. Maybe it’s time for something different?’
‘Well, like Doug says, I prefer working in more exotic locations.’
‘London is exotic to someone from Bora Bora.’
Claire smiled to herself. He wasn’t going to give up, was he? Jayce Ryder obviously wanted this man to write an article on his hotel and he wasn’t going to stop until he got it. She had to admire his ambition, but she also admired this ‘Nick’ person for sticking to his guns.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he finally said, which was probably the most sensible thing to do, given the tenacity of their host. Still, the look on his face said he was as likely to say ‘yes’ as he was to suddenly run out and buy an iron for that shirt.
‘That’s all I’m asking,’ Jayce said firmly.
Nick nodded sagely, then frowned. ‘So, how do you know Doug?’
Jayce gave a rueful smile. ‘Let’s just say that Doug’s lovely mother is a regular – and may I say, very exacting – customer of mine.’
This led them to launch into reminiscing about one of her more eventful stays at his flagship hotel in New York. Claire and Doug’s old college friend looked at each other and smiled.
‘So, are you Doug’s latest …?’
Claire laughed, maybe a little loudly, and shook her head. ‘Oh, no. Nothing like that. I’m his … Well, I’m his travel agent.’
He smiled at her quizzically. ‘In these days of internet bookings and last-minute deal sites, do we really need travel agents? Aren’t you a dying breed?’
Claire sipped her champagne. ‘Like a lot of industries, my one is changing, but that doesn’t mean I can’t carve out my niche. You know what those booking sites are like, don’t you? Great prices, huge amount of choice, but how do you know the top featured hotels are there because they’re really very good or because they’ve paid to promote themselves? Those kind of sites are fine if you know exactly what you want, but it can be a little overwhelming if you don’t.’
He was looking at her, his brown eyes warm, the slightest of smiles curling one corner of his mouth up.
‘Okay, maybe not everyone finds it overwhelming,’ she added hastily. This man didn’t look as if he’d find battling a nest of snakes in the desert much of an inconvenience. ‘But some people do. And it’s time consuming – especially if you do your homework – and, even if you do, it can still end up being a bit of a gamble. In your line of work, you must know that not every hotel lives up to its professionally taken pictures and website blurb.’
He let out a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t I know it.’ The smile stretched to the other side of his mouth. ‘So that’s where you come in.’
‘Exactly,’ Claire said, nodding. ‘For those people who want personalised recommendations, not just for travel routes and accommodation. I do my research, talk to my contacts. I can suggest the best times for sightseeing popular attractions, little out-of-the-way places people didn’t ev
en know they wanted to visit, restaurants for every budget. I offer what they don’t have – experience, contacts, a network of tried and tested travel options that people can depend on for quality and reliability. Think of me as the walking, talking guidebook for the people who don’t mind paying a little bit extra for service and security.’
‘And do you jump in their suitcases and pop out again to take them on guided tours?’
The twinkle in his eyes told her he was teasing her, but she didn’t mind. It was nice to talk to someone who liked travelling as much as she did, who had probably been to some of the places she longed to visit. And the fact he wasn’t bad-looking didn’t hurt much either. Maybe Peggy had a point about the lack of Y chromosomes in her life. Just a little bit of simple male attention was making her feel a little giddy.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘but sometimes I spend so much time planning the trip I wish I could go with them and do it all myself.’
He sighed. ‘What a pity I never use guidebooks.’
‘Not ever?’
He shook his head. ‘Although, I never go anywhere without a good map, but I like to just land somewhere and work it out for myself, discover its secrets by exploring, talking to people … That’s the whole fun of being in a new place.’
‘I take it you’re not a “top ten things to do in Paris” kind of guy, then?’
He laughed again. ‘Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. I prefer places that aren’t even on the tourist maps, if possible. What’s the point in going somewhere someone has already been and just reading what they already discovered about it from a book?’
Some more people crowded onto their little bit of the terrace, searching for their host, and she and Nick stepped closer to the parapet. Claire took a moment to look out across the darkening sky over the city. The clouds above were a dusky indigo while those at the horizon were still burnished with the memory of the setting sun.
‘Well, if there were more people like you,’ she said, as she kept staring at the view, ‘I’d be out of business before I was even established.’ She turned her head slightly to look at him. ‘But I have to admit, doing it your way sounds a lot of fun.’
She got an extra glimmer of warmth in those brown eyes as a reward for that comment. He opened his mouth and, just for the tiniest second, she hoped he would say something outrageous, like ‘Let’s jump in a cab, go to City Airport and catch the first plane we find.’ But he didn’t. Which was just as well, because hadn’t she promised herself she was going to make sure she knew – really knew – the next man she got involved with?
‘Would you like another?’ he asked, nodding at her empty glass.
Claire blinked. She didn’t remember finishing it. ‘Yes. Yes, please,’ she said and smiled at him as he took her empty flute and disappeared into the crowd. It was only after he’d disappeared amongst the bodies that she remembered she’d decided to stop at one glass. Oh, well. She’d never catch him up and she could always put the glass down when it arrived and ‘forget’ about it.
A cool breeze whipped above the parapet, causing her arms to tighten into gooseflesh. She folded them across her body and tried to warm herself. She turned round to see where Doug was and discovered that he and Jayce had drifted away, and they were now deep in conversation with two girls who looked like models. It was then she realised that avoiding more alcohol wasn’t the only thing she’d forgotten. She’d been so engrossed talking to Doug’s old college buddy that she hadn’t even introduced herself to the man she’d come here to meet.
With a quick glance towards the bar, she scuttled over to join the group and hoped she wasn’t going to become invisible in the company of two women at least a decade her junior and two dress sizes smaller.
Chapter Eleven
Send Me No Flowers
Dominic hummed as he worked his way back through the crowded party with a glass of champagne and a beer. He was glad he’d decided to come to this shindig after all. While it wasn’t really his style—he’d have much preferred an evening down at The Glass Bottom Boat with Pete—things had brightened up considerably since he’d met …
He paused. That’s right. They’d been so surprised to see each other again after all this time that Doug’s matchless manners had slipped. Dominic didn’t know the ‘not girlfriend’s’ name. He grinned. He would inside of five minutes, though.
She was a little more prim and sophisticated than his usual type. Not that he didn’t like sophisticated; he just tended to go for sporty girls. The women he usually met on his travels had battered plimsolls on their itchy feet, not stilettos. However, if he was going to prove he could be Mr Romantic maybe it was time to ditch the flower-child drifters and gypsy souls and try something different?
This blonde was certainly different and, although she was pretty and funny, he had the feeling she was going to be a bit of a challenge, which was perfect, actually. He needed something – or someone – to distract him for the next couple of months, because there was no way he was going to do a documentary on Jayce Ryder and his hotel chain to keep himself busy. He liked to tell the truth when he made his films and, as much as Mr Ryder kept bandying the words ‘creative freedom’ around, he had a feeling how it would go in reality. He’d end up being pushed into doing a hollow puff piece for The Hamilton and that wasn’t his style at all.
The corner of the terrace where he’d left her was more crowded now, and he elbowed his way through the last bit. He caught sight of a green and white floral dress, cool and serene against all the corporate grey and black, and realised she’d joined Doug and Jayce again. She was talking animatedly and both men were hanging on her every word, ready to laugh every time she finished a sentence. It was odd – she came across as all buttoned-up, but there was something very open and warm about her too.
He joined the group just as she was coming to a high point. ‘And you’ll never guess what he did next!’ she was telling the pair excitedly. ‘I don’t know whether to hoot with laughter or sue him for defamation of character!’
Doug wiped a tear from his eye. ‘This is too funny,’ he said between heaving breaths.
Dominic offered her the glass of champagne. Somehow she managed to smile, thank him and ask him if he could hold on to it just a little bit longer with one glance. He shrugged one shoulder and let her carry on.
She was digging around in a handbag that was the same shade of olive as the leaves on her dress. Eventually, she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Okay,’ she said, shooting a smile at her audience, ‘here it is.’
‘That’s the actual thing?’ Doug said, eyebrows high. He looked as if he was fit to bust something. ‘Can I see it?’
She nodded. ‘Let me read it first.’ She took a breath, composed herself and started to read what was on the paper.
‘Dear Ms Bixby…’
Dominic kept on grinning. He was only half listening, too busy wondering how he could steer her away from the competition and have her all to himself again. A tiny neuron in his brain flashed and winked, trying to alert him to the fact he’d just missed something important, but he ignored it.
‘I’m very sorry if I kept you awake last night. I didn’t realise my music would disturb you.’
The neuron winked harder, almost spontaneously combusting with the effort, and Dominic, who was nodding, waiting for the rest of the story he’d half missed to be over, stopped smiling. He experienced a cold rush, similar to the feeling he usually got when he realised he’d left the house without something essential. He patted his pockets and found his phone, his keys and his wallet all safely there.
‘Okay, this is the priceless bit,’ Claire was saying. ‘I was under the impression that you are a little deaf and the volume has certainly never bothered you before. However, I’m guessing you’ve recently had a hearing aid fitted, and I’ll try to keep the noise down in the future, especially late at night.’
Dominic froze. That lone neuron had finally done its job and now slumped exhausted in the corner, w
hile a thousand others took up its cause and lit up his brain like a firework display. He took a good long slug of his beer.
It couldn’t be. How had she got hold of that?
Wh-why? Why? Why? Like a broken record, his mind seemed to have got stuck on that word.
How could this attractive woman he’d just met at a party be reading the note he’d left for his upstairs neighbour this morning? Had some weird Doctor Who thing happened and it had slipped through a wormhole and ended up in her handbag?
She was giggling, really giggling now, which made her nose crease up and look cute. Dominic got stuck looking at it, looking at the bright smile underneath. It was way easier than trying to work out what parallel universe he’d slipped into.
‘And he left the note on my doorstep along with a box of Milk Tray and the latest issue of The People’s Friend. I mean, how rude can you get?’
‘What a jerk,’ Jayce muttered.
Dominic hadn’t warmed to the hotel tycoon that much since first meeting him, but now he was starting to actively dislike him. What did he mean ‘jerk’? A lot of thought had gone into those presents. He downed the rest of his beer.
It was then that Doug spotted him standing there, confused and scowling, an empty bottle in one hand and a glass of fizz in the other. ‘Hey, you’re back! I’m so sorry, Nic. Please forgive my rudeness. I forgot to introduce you to this lovely creature …’ He turned and smiled at his guest. ‘This is Claire Bixby.’
Those fireworks inside Dominic’s head went for the finale. He put his mouth to his beer bottle and found it empty, so downed the champagne instead. ‘Claire Bixby?’ he repeated, weakly.
‘Yes,’ Doug replied, completely oblivious to anything but the lovely woman in the green and white dress he’d brought with him. ‘I’d like her to become the second Mrs Martin, but she keeps turning me down.’
‘The second Mrs Martin?’ he repeated, no less confused than before the introduction. Had Doug got married and divorced since he’d last seen him?